"But we must warn them! Warn our ancestors!" Michel cried. A fierce light burned in his keen young eyes. "They must not choose the path that leads to... to this!" He spread out his arms to indicate the entire world of 1960: Napoleon V, the great Monopolies that controlled France, England and America, the death of human feeling, of literature, of politics, even of war, that most futile but also most noble of mortal occupations. The old savant looked at him. "There is a way," he said quietly. "A way that is untried, uncertain... but yet, it may succeed. My researches..." He paused."Speak! Speak!" said Michel, seizing the old man's hand. "What is this way?""I believe..." The savant paused, weighing his words. "I believe... or at least, I hope... that we can send a message into the past, into the world of 1863. To be precise, we can send a book. One book, no more.""Then we must write this book!" said Michel. "We must start now! We have no time to lose!""Less time than you think, my child," said the savant wearily. "The book must be prepared and sent this very night. Later, and the favorable conjunction of the planets..."Michel glanced in horror at his electric watch. It already showed 20 hours and some minutes."Then... it is hopeless?" he asked in a barely audible voice."No!" said his friend. "Not hopeless! I have another invention which may aid us." He cleared his throat, the old professorial manner slowly returning to him. "You will remember that all books are fundamentally alike. There are but seven basic stories..."Michel tried to remember the single course on literary theory he had taken before the Decree of 1959, abolishing all Faculties of Letters."Yes, seven basic stories," continued the savant. His fingers gripped an invisible piece of chalk as he gestured. "Similarly, I have determined that there are but nine characters; eleven scenes; fourteen dialogues. I could go on. But we must proceed from theory to practice. Let me show you my Literary Engine. Come."Suddenly animated, he strode to a corner of the laboratory and removed a dust-sheet with a theatrical flourish. "In essence," he continued, "it is simplicity itself. You place a suitable selection of books in the feeder here. You adjust these dials to determine the mode of combination, set the pressure of the steam, and the machine does the rest. It borrows a plot from this book, a character from the second, an intrigue from the third - et voilà the new book emerges in the hopper on the right, neatly bound in calfskin! Now, we merely need to choose our - ah - raw materials. You will assist me."Michel gazed at the old scientist in wonder, then at the vast array of bookcases which covered the whole of one wall. "Exactly!" urged his friend. "Please! Give me your suggestions!""Well..." Michel paused, thinking feverishly. "Brave New World, of course. And Boris Vian's L'Ecume des jours. Though, I think, we want less--" He blushed modestly."Exactly so, exactly so," murmured the savant, as he bent over a Vernier gauge. "Eroticism at lowest setting. Pray continue.""I fear for our beloved French language," said Michel. "We must include this volume - the last one, alas! - of the Proceedings of the Académie Française. And poetry. Poetry is essential. I move to add Victor Hugo's Notre-Dame de Paris.""Done!" said his friend, as he carefully put the books into the feeder. "And now..."Without completing his phrase, he pulled a large lever. Wheels spun; electric lights twinkled in incomprehensible patterns; jets of steam arose from vents on the side of the machine. Twenty minutes later, a piercing whistle was heard, and with a clank the new book was deposited in the hopper. Michel cast himself over it."But..." he said, as he leafed through it. "I mean...""You are not pleased?" asked his friend anxiously. "I am sure all the elements are there. I chose the settings most carefully.""But where is Huxley's wit?" asked Michel. "Or Vian's imagination? Where are the learned comments of the Academicians? And where, oh where, is Hugo's poetry?""These are imponderable qualities," responded the savant with a slight edge of irritation. "The essential thing is that the result is scientifically correct. Now, I have only to place the book here, and turn this screw, and it will be transported into the past, into the year 1863. You see, it is already done.""Will it help?" asked Michel, still assailed by doubts. "Will they read it? and understand?""Who knows?" replied the savant. "Perhaps it will change history, so that our miserable world will never come to be. Or perhaps it will lie for a century in a strong-box, mouldering and unread. We will never learn its fate. The important thing is that we have tried. Now you must promise me not to return; it would be too dangerous for both of us."And, clasping Michel in his arms, he bade him a final farewell.
Parīzē rit divdesmitā gadsimta sešdesmitie gadi. Sabiedriskais transports ir absolūti efektīvs, daļu slodzes paņem plānveidīgi izstrādāti pneimatiskā vilciena maršruti, bagātākie cilvēki brauc ar viena zirgspēka jaudas automobiļiem, ostās pienāk milzu kuģi. Pat Parīze ir kļuvusi par ostas pilsētu. Liekas, ka cilvēcei tehnoloģiskais progress ir nesis tikai labumu, bet tā vis nav, ir kāda cilvēces mantojuma daļa, kuru tehnoloģijas ir praktiski iznīcinājuši. Humanitārās zinātnes kā tādas vairs nepastāv, mākslinieki, literāti un muzikanti ir kļuvuši nepieprasīti un nevajadzīgi.Runājot godīgi, grāmata ir totāls mēsls. Pirmie kucēni ir jāslīcina, un arī šis bija noslīcināts. Verna izdevējs šo grāmatu bija atteicies publicēt un pareizi darīja. Bet pēc kāda laika autora mantiniekiem šķita laba ideja nopelnīt vēl kādu kapeiku papildus, un grāmata ieraudzīja pasauli. Kā tad te ir ar futūristiku? Nekā! Autors tiražē tās pašas idejas, kas tikai apspriestas grāmatas sarakstīšanas laikā. Visa industrija darbojas uz saspiestu gaisu, datoru vietā strādā Paskāla teorētiskie mehānismi, par kosmosa kuģiem neko netiku lasījis, apgaismojumu dod dzīvsudraba lampas. Visi šie nākotnes redzējumi ir visnotaļ shematiski un nebūt neaizņem grāmatā nopietnu daļu. Lielākā grāmatas daļa tiek aizvadīta, reflektējot uz aizgājušajiem Francijas laikiem. Tiem, kad mākslinieki bija cieņā un rakstniekus lasīja. Un kā nu sagadījies, kā ne, šie laiki ir bijuši pirms Žila Verna laikiem. Tad nu mēs esam spiesti lasīt veselu nodaļu, kurā tiek uzskaitīti franču klasiķi. Tad ir nodaļa, kurā varoņi gremdējas aizgājušo laiku mūzikā. Labi, ka tas viss notika uz kombinētās iekārtas klavieres, gulta, galds fona, citādi būtu ļoti, ļoti garlaicīgi. Bez sarunām viņu dzīves izskaistina apkampieni, kuri tiek veikti sastopoties izrādot īstu vīru draudzību.Grāmatas galvenais varonis Mišels ir savam laikmetam neraksturīgs cilvēks, viņu velk uz dzeju, interesē vecie rakstnieki un mūzika. Jaunajā pasaulē tādiem īsti nav, ko darīt. Laikmetā, kur cilvēki dzejas vietā lasa monogrāfijas par berzes novēršanas tehnoloģijām un pneimatisko vārstu īpatnībām, tādām lietām nav noieta. Cilvēki ir kļuvuši racionāli, un ar niekiem vairs nenodarbojas. Mišelam ir deviņpadsmit gadu, un viņa liktenis jau no sākta gala ir izlemts. Taču lasītājam nevajag sabēdāties, Mišels nav tas tēls, kuram var ieķerties, autoram viņš ir tikai kā skaļrunis, ar kura palīdzību izplūst garos pašmērķīgos dialogos un monologos. Vēlme apgaroti izteikties piemīt arī visiem pārējiem grāmatas personāžiem. Vienīgā Mišela odziņa ir tā, ka viņu nedaudz velk uz jauniem meitiešiem, viņa mīļotajai ir veseli piecpadsmit gadi, un viņš viņu būtu gatavs precēt. Bet visādi citādi Mišels, neskatoties uz savu dzejnieka dvēseli, vismaz autors uzskata, ka viņam tāda ir, ir vienkāršs cilvēks, kuram rokas aug no pakaļas. Viņam nav nekādas nojausmas par to, ko nozīmē pelnīt sev maizi. Nav jau arī nekāds brīnums, visu mūžu viņu ir audzinājis tēvocis baņķieris. Par to Mišels mīl nicīgi izteikties un uzskatīt viņa ģimeni par aprobežotiem tumsoņām. Bet nepateicība jau ir pasaules alga.Grāmata ir pelnījusi 2 no 10 ballēm. Viņas vienīgais plussir tās mazais lapaspušu skaits. Reti kad ir gadījies lasīt tik garlaicīgu grāmatu par tehnogēno nākotni. Pat mūsdienu stīmpanka žanra grāmatās pasaules ir pārdomātākas un interesantākas par šo Žila Verna kunkstēšanu par kultūras izzušanu. Pie tam problēma ir izzīsta no pirksta un ieviesta tikai tādēļ, lai nebūtu jānodarbojas ar futuroloģiju, bet tā vietā varētu izrādīts savas zināšanas par sava laikmeta kultūras sasniegumiem.
Do You like book Paris In The Twentieth Century (1997)?
Whilst perusing the bookstore a week ago I came across a copy of this for a few bucks and couldn't help but pick it up. In the end, not sure it was worth it.The summary is pretty much what you'd expect. Casting his mind forward 100 years Verne tells us what life will be like in 1960. In many ways he's not too far off the mark. His world isn't a total apocalyptic mess but it's not a particularly fun or artistic place either. On the positive side, as always with Verne you have to admire his attention to details and his powers of prognostication. He does not insist on casting a rosy light on the future and describes it in wonderful and vibrant prose.The negative side, however, is that all this vibrant detail can sometimes take a degree in French literature to untangle. He does, at times, go into a wealth of detail that only a native Parisian could properly appreciate. I bought this book with the intention of passing it along to the kids in the house but there's just too much of a Gordian knot in this text to hold their attention. This Verne is not focused so much on the technology of the future as he is the society of the future. It's an interesting and insightful view but it's a bit much to swallow.In summary, not what I would have hoped for. This book has a lot to say for certain but it's just too tangled up with intimate details that just confuse the already rather brief plotline. One can understand why it may have remained unpublished for so long as a work of popular literature.
—Rob Slaven
Di seguito, la descrizione dello zio "imprenditore" del protagonista."Stanislas Boutardin era il prodotto naturale di quel secolo industriale [...] Un uomo pratico prima di tutto, non faceva nulla che non fosse utile, riconducendo all'utilità ogni sua minima idea, con un desiderio smodato di essere utile che derivava da un egoismo autenticamente ideale, unendo l'utile allo spiacevole, come avrebbe detto Orazio; la sua vanità traspariva dalle sue parole, più ancora dai suoi gesti, e non avrebbe permesso alla propria ombra di precederlo; [...] Disprezzava sovranamente le arti e soprattutto gli artisti, per dare a credere che li conosceva. [...] Quest'uomo allevato nella meccanica spiegava la vita con gli ingranaggi o con le trasmissioni [...], trasmetteva il suo moto uniforme a sua moglie, a suo figlio, ai suoi impiegati, ai suoi domestici, vere macchine utensili da cui lui, il grande motore, traeva il massimo profitto. Una natura gretta, insomma, [...] spesso sciatto, chiassoso, orribilmente comune. Aveva fatto un'enorme fortuna; lo slancio industriale del secolo lo aveva preso nel vortice; di conseguenza egli si mostrava riconoscente verso l'industria, che adorava come una dea. [...] La posizione sociale del banchiere era la seguente: Direttore della Società delle Catacombe di Parigi [...] Egli divenne il direttore di questa importante società, pur restando membro di 15 o 20 comitati di vigilanza, vicepresidente della Società delle Locomotive, amministratore del Sottocomitato dei Bitumi Fusi, ecc...".Brano tratto dalle pagine 21 e 22.Verne scrisse questo racconto nel 1863, ambientandolo nell'allora lontano 1960.
—Corinna
Alas, this is a most peculiar book with an even stranger history. Here is one of Jules Verne's earliest novels, which only came to light in 1989, when the manuscript was discovered in an old family safe by Verne's great-grandson. The 1863 work was published in 1994 and translated into English in 1996. (I managed to bury my copy for the past 15 years until the work was recently mentioned by Andrei Codrescu on NPR.) The book's obscurity may be in part explained by the comments of Pierre-Jules Hetzel, Verne's publisher, who rejected the tale. His words were more prophetic than those of the famous science-fiction novelist: "In this piece, there is not a single issue concerning the real future that is properly resolved...[it is] lackluster and lifeless." He added, "I was hoping for something better." I can only concur with his judgment. Much modern critical commentary on this book has dealt with Verne's descriptions of skyscrapers, gas-powered vehicles, high-speed trains, gigantic computers, and his Internet-like communications network. In general, it is amusing to discover these tidbits and embellish them with more scientific insights than Verne possessed or could adequately detail. Some have suggested that he predicted the Eiffel Tower and the modern Pyramid that graces the courtyard of the Louvre. However, if the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, this is a novel that falters on its literary merits. It is a dystopian novel, which depicts the dreary life of budding 16-year-old poet Michel Dufrenoy in a soulless Paris of the early 1960's where art is dedicated to the virtues of business and technology. Young Michel is ridiculed by all, including his family, for winning the arcane Latin verse prize at the Academic Credit Union, " the vast institution of public education." He is chastised for not writing modern verse, such as "Decarbonated Odes" or "Medications on Oxygen," and placed in an apprentice banking position behind an intractable calculating machine by the eminently practical Monsieur Bourtardin, his uncle and guardian. Young Michel, due to ineptitude disinterest, and his artistic sensitivities is ill-suited to this position or subsequent similiar settings, but assisted by a mysterious librarian (who also turns out to be an uncle, but the reverse image of Boutardin), a few new friends in the despised humanities, and a former rhetoric professor and his lovely granddaughter Lucy. While Michel's poetic ambitions are kindled, he, nevertheless, sinks into penury in the cruel world of heartless technocrats. In the midst of a harsh winter in which the Seine freezes, Michel writes his book of verse entitled HOPES, but is reduced to eating "scarcity bread" made of acorns and, finally, consuming coal bread. With his last sous, he buys withered flowers to take to Lucy, but discovers that she and her grandfather have been evicted as the stockbrokers of the university have determined there is no place in an academic setting for the teaching of literary topics. Heartbroken, Michel wanders the streets viewing the historic monuments of Paris and perishes in the deep city snows in true melodramatic fashion.Although the portrait of a world dominated by a faceless financial-technocratic coven dedicated to greater wealth, automated mechanisms, and interchangeable human actors resonates in this work, we find that Verne was less prescient about the changing nature of social relations, the character of international diplomacy and politics, questions of medicine and disease, and his notions on the ultimate end of warfare. It is obviously far more difficult to predict human factors than to imagine the working of a combustible engine. Verne does provide us with a kaleidoscopic view of mid-19th-century French culture from his perspective, noting his favorite literary and philosophical figures and offering his ideas on music, science, and the environment. What he fails to do is to is to provide a sound plot and multidimentional characters with which he can engage his readers. As the publisher Hetzel told Verne, "Your Michel is a real goose with his verses." For all of the flaws in George Orwell's 1984, there is a clear effort to establish Winston Smith as a flesh-and-blood character, who is far less didactic in his speeches than Michel when challenging the brave new world. With Verne's work, we are left with an admiration for many of his accurate conjectures about our technical society, but the ironic thought that his imagined 20th-century boorish elite might have been right in rejecting this book.
—THE
